


the child is grown (the dream is gone)

by existentialflu (sotakeabitofcalpol)



Category: NCIS
Genre: Episode: s10e01 Extreme Prejudice, Gen, Introspection, i guess look it’s just kinda something tbh, various other characters but I’m only tagging him as per my mo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotakeabitofcalpol/pseuds/existentialflu
Summary: He wanted independence, a chance to prove himself. Not like this, though.A little look into Jimmy’s thoughts and feelings in extreme prejudice
Kudos: 10





	the child is grown (the dream is gone)

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like we all forget Palmer’s first independent autopsies are people he knew at the very least in passing.
> 
> warnings: mentions of terrorist attacks, bombings, vague autopsy stuff

There was a case, back in 2002, of a terrorist bombing that hit Bali. Instead of the terrorists hitting a military target, two bombs exploded in crowded tourist areas, killing around 200 20-somethings who went to party.

The part Palmer remembers, as he takes his gloves off for a second to rub his eyes, is the part of the pathologists called in from the various countries. The island hadn't been prepared for an attack, not for the onslaught of injured that fell on the hospitals, not for those who couldn't be saved, with nowhere near enough freezer units suitable for storing bodies to be found. As the heat of the day had risen, the pathologists had no hope of identifying bodies before decomposition set in, decaying and fragmented bodies lying in the shade. So the relief teams had bought ice from all the shops they could find, piling bodies with bags of ice. Some of the MEs present could never look at an ice cube the same way again.

They don't have that problem, not in Washington. There will always be enough cold storage units, even if their own had been blocked off by rubble. There are more medical examiners who could be here. Yet here he is, working well into...well, whatever time it is. His watch reads sometime around 2am, and last time Breena called, she had laughed, gentle and with very little mirth, but with so much love it made the next few minutes hurt less, made him smile through whatever numb mask he'd put up about half an hour in. She'd laughed, because he'd asked if everything was okay, ' _you sound tired_ ', and she'd told him it was late, even where she was, that he should be exhausted by now. She hadn't asked if he was feeling okay, or how he's feeling, and it's a relief, he has no idea how he feels, and if she asked he might finally snap if he doesn't start sobbing. She didn't, and it makes him love her all the more. His wife, god, his _wife_.

Someone taps him on the shoulder, breaks his reverie. He replaces his glasses, and smiles up at them. She smiles back, faint as terrible cheap watercolour, and he can tell his smile looks no more real or reassuring.

"Are you ok, Miss..."

"Oh, I'm fine. Are you the ME?"

"That would be me. Palmer."

"Darcie. We've found more bodies, in the armoury. I'm supposed to walk you there, because of the instability."

"Let me grab a new pair of gloves. Oh, and Jimmy is fine."

She nods, and she looks too young to be here. He looked older, when he'd caught his reflection in a car window, older than he'd looked this morning. Yesterday morning, at this stage. _Darcie_ is probably his age, maybe older, and he can't help but wonder if this is her first scene like this.

She leads him to the armoury, where the door has only just been pried open, and a few familiar faces wander past. Phyllis grabs his shoulder as he tries to walk through.

"Be gentle, Jimmy. He's...he was a good man."

He doesn't really remember why he knows her name, nor why she knows his, but he pats her arm and she allows herself to be lead away. There are bullet holes in the walls from munitions that were triggered by the blast, and he's weighing up the options; shrapnel, or a stray bullet, maybe collapsed structural aspect of the building. His second guess is correct, Liam is on the floor next to what was probably the shelves containing the ammo, with half a dozen holes punched through his shirt and skin. He'd held the door for him once, and the man had thanked him profusely. Another time, they'd been held up in the security queue together, and he'd shown him pictures of a college age son. He swallows, takes a breath. Everyone else takes the cue to leave. He starts taking photos of the body, of the outline of a man shown by holes where bullets hit. None of the bullets in Liam show an exit wound, so he hands over to whoever's bring the bodies down to autopsy and asks where the next one is.

"I think he was the last one. In any case, you should take a few seconds, maybe get yourself checked over by the EMTs."

"I'm fine, I wasn't here when it hit."

"You're white as a sheet."

 _Maybe it's because I'm examining bodies of people I knew instead of at my wedding_ , he doesn't say. _Maybe it's because I've been working for almost two days and I haven't slept and barely eaten._ Instead, he plasters on another fake smile. She didn't mean any harm by it, so it'd be unfair to take it out on her.

"Diabetic, haven't been keeping up with my blood sugar today. I'll grab a candy bar from the machines."

He should probably eat a proper meal, given all he can remember eating in the hours since the bomb is barely a quarter of a hospital sandwich that sat like cornflower in his mouth, and more cups of coffee than would be recommended. That would take time, though, and energy he doesn't have right now.

"I'll come with you."

He looks at her. She looks terrible, young, scared, swaying on her feet. She probably made the same mistake he did, signing up to help people in a way he thought would be safe. He's used to crime scenes, to this building. It shouldn't be both at the same time.

"Only if you let me get you something too. You look like you're about to pass out."

"Sorry, it's just...a lot."

"Yeah."

"It must be so much worse for you, this is your place."

It's not his place, that's not it. This is his family. He knows Abby's ok because he stopped by her lab on his way down, and she'd crushed him in a hug that left tears on his shirt and bits of glass in the tread of his shoes. He knows Gibbs and Tony and Ziva are hunting this guy down. He knows they found McGee upright with a shard of glass in him, and Jimmy knows he'll be back too soon against doctor's orders. It doesn't change the fact that these people are the closest thing he has to a proper family, and someone hurt them. He shakes his head out to dispel the thought.

"Yeah. It sucks."

* * *

The vending machines are jagged around the edges with the shattered glass front, clearly having been pushed back upright but sparingly raided. Not many people are back, it's mostly Gibbs's team and the rest of the emergency crews. Maybe it's because it's the middle of the night, and the MCRT barely goes home even in calm times. McGee is back at his desk, but the others are out. He scrounges a nutter butter for him, and a pack of jolly ranchers for himself, pats Darcie on the shoulder as she starts rifling through the unit. She smiles, so he leaves her to it, throws the packet at McGee.

"Should you be here?"

"Should you?"

"I'm acting ME. Besides, I wasn't in the ER."

"Just stitches."

"Bet you discharged yourself against doctors orders."

He doesn't reply, but it's obvious it's the truth.

"Just...come downstairs if you need it looked at."

He leaves to make a start on the bodies downstairs.

"Jimmy...I'm sorry about your wedding."

"It's fine. We got married."

It sounds caustic, maybe, words he can't quite filter. Tim seems to understand though, nods with sympathy that feels more like empathy. It doesn't feel like courtesy, at the very least.

* * *

The stairs are empty. The lifts still aren't running since they got Tony and Ziva out of them earlier. Every stair sends a jolt through him as he sinks too hard into them, out of energy to softer the impact. Everything aches from being crouched over for the last hours, and the room spins a little halfway down. He opens the packet and pops one in his mouth. He should be able to leave them just in reach, and remember to eat. Someone's left a coffee on the autopsy desk, and he downs it gratefully despite how strong it is. He'd suspect it for Gibbs's coffee, if it weren't for the fact Gibbs wouldn't leave him coffee.

He starts with the bodies closest, the ones charred beyond recognition by the fire, gathering tissue samples to send to Abby. They're the easiest, because he can't recognise them, they're just another victim to recognise but distance himself from, and it's easy. He brings the samples to Abby himself when his fingers starts to shake, and she offers him some of the Cafpow someone brought her. She hugs him again, like he's going to vanish if she doesn't, and he starts the walk back to Autopsy.

* * *

The next few hours are hell. He's soot-smudged, exhausted, recognising people he never knew well enough on his table. Harper Dearing crosses his table, and he barely even notices the difference. The director and Gibbs and Fornell walk in, and Abby confirms it's him. They leave, and Dearing stays on the end table as he carries on his duty. He's glad Dr Mallard never had to open up people he must have known better, but he selfishly wishes he was here.

Breena calls again, worry more clear. Just a few more, he tells her, then I'll sleep. He's coming up on three full days now, and he knows it shows when the victim's families talk to him. Some of them are angry. Most of them are numb. One teenager asks if he's ok, and he doesn't have an answer, so he tells her he's just busy. One father almost punches him, and he just barely ducks out of the way, reflexes hampered by exhaustion just winning out over grief-fuelled clumsiness. The man apologises, when he returns an hour later, but it's not that important. Besides, Dr Mallard is doing better, according to Bree.

He finishes the last of the paperwork and means to go home, but he can't bear the thought of his empty apartment, and Dr Mallard isn't home to let him in. His feet take him to Gibbs's house, but he just sits on the front steps, even though he knows it's open. The air is warm compared to the clinical coolness of Autopsy, and he lets that heat build until his jumper is uncomfortable.

"Jimmy?"

Ziva is stood ahead of him, bag in her arms.

"Ziva! I was just...I was just..."

She pulls him into a short hug that he returns with what he hopes isn't an inappropriate level of relief. He hasn't had any physical contact with anyone living except brief hugs from Abby since he left to come back, and although it hasn't been long, he needs this. Ziva must too, if she lets him.

"Gibbs won't mind."

She doesn't wait for an answer, just drags him by his shirt collar through the door to see Tony, asleep at the table, McGee and Abby slouched against the wall, close in the way they always are. Gibbs looks over from the kitchen and nods.

"Make yourself at home."

"It's really fine, you guys are already full, I'm just going to..."

Tony, somehow without appearing to wake up, pulls him down into a chair. Ziva takes another and dumps her bag.

"You've barely left Autopsy for three days, Jimmy. Stay."

So he does.

He wakes up in much the same position as Tony, head on folded forearms. Abby puts boxes of pizza, still warm, on the table, and everyone flocks inward. The food is gone quickly, eaten ravenously but without appetite, borne from physical hunger and mental exhaustion. Tony nudges Ziva after she's finished, and she takes herself off to an armchair, pretty much instantly asleep. Tony sits next to her, shoulder against her knee, and he realises they're sleeping in shifts. Gibbs stuffs the boxes into the trash, moves all the cups to the sink. He places a kiss on Abby's forehead, nods meaningfully at Tony, and looks dead at him with a look that reminds him of his mother gently sending him to bed. Then, he turns and walks out.

"Dibs on the couch." Says Abby, in a whisper-yell. Nobody contests her, as she pulls pajamas from her bag and heads towards what he assumes is a bathroom.

He should probably get going soon, before the trains stop running. Tony throws a napkin at him.

"You're staying the night, Gibbs orders."

"When..." the nod. Right.

"Go give McGee a hand with the washing up, then pick a spot."

Tim tries to pull himself upright, stiffly. He offers him a hand, and it's gladly accepted.

"It's only a few cups and stuff, I don't need a..."

Tony looks at him, and he quickly changes his mind.

"Come on then."

It's really just a few cups, but it's pretty obvious it's to get him somewhere Tim can talk to him.

"How's the stomach?"

"A bit sore, but I'll live. You ok with the other armchair?"

"What! No, you take it."

"Jimmy..."

"Tim, I'm naive but I'm not an idiot. You were blown up, could barely stand up without help. Take the armchair."

"I've slept at a table before, it won't kill me."

Mostly fuelled by the same lack of energy to be afraid of Tim he had earlier, he levels a look at him. It seems to work, and he turns just as Abby comes closer, hugging him. She's careful with his wound, and he doesn't want to think about how many injuries it would take to acquire that knowledge. She nods at him, a question: _did you get him to take the armchair?_ He tries to nod back a _yes_.

"Night, Jimmy." She says, before dragging McGee towards the sofas. He places the last cup on the draining board, and sits back in his seat.

He sleeps, but not very well. It's not that he has nightmares, not that he dreams at all. It's that he's terrified he'll start thinking about the last three days and the nightmares will start.

Nobody else seems to sleep well. Tony calms both Ziva and Abby back to sleep with practised ease and low murmurs. He hears the front door shutting gently, and the sound of Tim talking to someone outside, the continual background of woodwork from the basement.

"Gremlin."

Tony places two glasses of water on the table.

"Hey Tony."

"How're you doing?"

"I-I'm not really sure yet. It's been a long day."

"Fair enough. It can take a while to really hit."

"It did last time."

Tony looks at him, not unkindly, and signals him to elaborate.

"With Cobb, and the getting kidnapped and the waterb...the thing he did with the hose. Freaked me out."

Tony nods.

"They're gonna feel different."

"It's a lot, Tony. I haven't slept in...I don't even really know. I've autopsied other agents before, but..."

Jimmy knows he looked older earlier, but Tony looks _so much_ older when his shoulders drop, weary as he had when Gibbs left and he held them all together. Tony is the big brother he never had, he realises, even if he'll never say it aloud, and he takes the role heavy on already burdened shoulders. McGee walks back in, right arm ~~he'd forgetten Tim was left-handed; if that glass had been higher, deeper, would he have remembered that about him?~~ wrapped tightly around his waist and pain in his eyes.

"Sarah."

"She heard?."

"From Penny, she hasn't been following the news. She was worried."

"Late."

"She's a student, Tony, she gets about as much sleep as we do."

The look in his eyes is fond.

"Fair enough. You should get some."

"Tony."

They have a staring match, both quirking eyebrows in a silent language that they probably don't even realise they have. They seem to come to a conclusion, and McGee moves back over to his armchair via pushing Ziva's glass of water away from the edge of the coffee table and pulling Abby's blanket to cover her better.

"Jimmy."

"You too."

"I..."

"They're all at peace. You can take a break, now."

He lays a hand on his shoulder that lasts too long to be casual but just long enough to be comfort. Understanding.

Jimmy Palmer sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> listen I want three things: people’s trauma from the Dearing plotline to be acknowledged, Jimmy content and the team crashing at Gibbs’s. if I cannot have them I will make them myself.
> 
> that fact from the start is real, they genuinely had to use shop-bought ice. if you like pathology, unnatural causes is a really good book.
> 
> title from comfortably numb by pink floyd, and only peripherally relevant. turns out there aren't many songs with lyrics that can be applied to non-graphic autopsying


End file.
